


couldn't get no silver, couldn't get no gold

by hollow_dweller



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Escape, Gen, Kidnapping, Rescue, Strangulation, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: “There is no evil scheme, Spider-Man. You have been brought here to die.”Despite himself, a thrill of dread races up his spine at those calm, matter-of-fact words. It doesn’t sound like a threat- it sounds like a certainty.“Yeah, okay. Can’t say I’m a fan of that plan-”“Your preference is immaterial. You will die, and I will watch. Good-bye.”*Prompt fill for day 1 of Whumptober: Waking up restrained | Hanging
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935892
Comments: 19
Kudos: 97
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	couldn't get no silver, couldn't get no gold

**Author's Note:**

> hello! welcome to the project that has been eating my brain for most of the past month: whumptober 2020! the aim is to have something for each day- we'll see how that goes. for now, please enjoy my fill for day 1: waking up restrained | hanging. CNTW because there is some semi-graphic descriptions of injuries. fic is set in the nebulous post-Hoco/pre-IW period. 
> 
> if you want to be notified of future prompt fills, subscribe to the series!
> 
> title for this taken from the horrifyingly morbid Led Zepplin song, Gallows Pole.

Of all the odd places and situations Peter has found himself in during his time as Spider-Man, waking up face-down on a cold concrete floor, in his boxers, and bound with cuffs is definitely among the least enjoyable. 

It is the most memorable, on the other hand. He’ll give it that. 

_Alright_ , he thinks, blinking slowly, letting the last clinging vestiges of unconsciousness fall away. _Take stock. What’s happening, Spider-Man?_

Aside from being nearly-naked and cuffed with his wrists behind his back- not that he needs it to get much worse than that, to be entirely honest- he’s muzzy-headed, limbs heavy in the way they get when you haven’t had enough sleep, or you’ve been woken right in the middle of a REM cycle. It doesn’t quite feel like he’s woken from a natural sleep, and the yawning void of memory as to how he got here pretty much confirms it: they must have knocked him out, somehow- taken by surprise during patrol, probably- and drugged him to keep him under. 

He breathes for a moment, firmly telling the ratcheting spike of nervous energy that fills him to back off. Panic attack later, escape now. 

There’s no-one in the room with him, that’s definite. He can smell concrete dust and slightly stale air, but no other humans, and the only heartbeat he can hear is his own. That also means that either there’s no-one outside of whatever room this is, or it’s sound-proofed enough that he can’t hear them. 

He lifts his head and twists, trying to flex his arms where they’re bound behind his back, and groans. Sharp jolts of pain travel up his arms- he’s been stuck in this position too long, it’s clear, and the muscles have completely cramped up. He grits his teeth and pushes through it, flexing again, trying to bring circulation back into his now-screaming arms. 

The cuffs aren’t too tight- he’s still got circulation in his hands, which is something. He’s got to get out of them, however- he can’t maneuver himself well with them tied behind his back. He flexes his arms again, the chain between the cuffs pulling taut, and yanks, feeling metal bite into his wrists before-

-nothing. He hisses as his wrists jolt to a stop, unable to break the chain.

He grits his teeth- they’ve clearly come prepared, whoever _they_ are- and tries again. This time he pulls so hard he feels the deep, jarring twinge of pinched nerves in both wrists, and he stops, panting a little. 

Okay, not regular cuffs. Got it. 

He twists again, wiggling around on the floor until he can scrunch his body in a way that lets him get his knees under him, and fervently hopes that whoever has got him isn’t somehow watching. Realistically, they probably are- anyone smart enough to take his suit _and_ scrounge up some Spider-Man-proof cuffs almost certainly isn’t going to leave him unsupervised. But it makes him feel better to believe that no-one is around to witness his- objectively stupid-looking- attempts to stand. 

He finally manages to get some leverage and pulls himself up into a kneeling position, taking a look around the room. 

It’s about what he expected- plain grey walls, all concrete, except for what is almost definitely a reinforced metal door. He can’t see any cameras anywhere, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. If their tech is good enough, they could be using fiber-optic cameras, probably embedded in the door frame, to spy on him, and he wouldn't be able to see them. 

Kneeling has also brought his attention to the fact that there is something wrapped around his neck. 

With his hands cuffed behind his back it’s hard to reach, but he strains the limits of his flexibility and bends backwards, enough so that he can press tentative fingers to the material around his neck. It feels thick and rope-like, smooth yet woven, like nylon. Right at the base of his neck there’s a large knot, and then a portion of the rope that leads up. He cranes his neck back and feels the rope slide against the back of his head, spotting where it leads up to a pulley system on the ceiling. 

That’s when he realizes. 

“Is this a fucking _noose?_ ” he says, incredulous. 

“Very astute, Spider-Man,” a voice says, from nowhere. 

He’s on his feet in an instant, feet spread apart and bracing, keeping him balanced even with his hands bound. He looks around for the person, but- of course, there’s nothing. The room must be wired for sound, though he didn’t hear even a crackle of a mic coming to life. However this is, they’re good, and so is their tech. 

That is… slightly worrying. 

“Kinda rude,” he says, training his gaze on the door- the most likely place for a camera. “You take a guy’s suit, knock him out, cuff him, and you’re not even going to come say hi?” 

“I’m not interested in your banter, Spider-Man.” There’s something… unsettling, about the voice. It doesn’t sound impatient or angry, nor is it gleeful or smug. It’s perfectly even, toneless, no inflection at all. It’s not quite robotic- there’s no tinny hallmark of an AI or a vocal modulator- but it is featureless. 

“Hey buddy,” Peter says, pushing through the sudden thrill of foreboding that voice evokes. “You kidnapped _me_ , here. You don’t want to listen to my banter, just let me go. Win-win.” 

“No.” 

Peter blinks. He waits, but the voice doesn’t say anything further. “Okay, not so much for the witty repartee, then…” he mutters, under his breath. Then, louder, he says, “Do you mind getting to the explaining your evil scheme bit, then? Only I’m sure it’s getting late, and people will worry, and I just hate to be a bother, you know? So the faster we can move this along the better for everyone.” 

“There is no evil scheme, Spider-Man. You have been brought here to die.” 

Despite himself, a thrill of dread races up his spine at those calm, matter-of-fact words. It doesn’t sound like a threat- it sounds like a certainty. 

“Yeah, okay. Can’t say I’m a fan of that plan-”

“Your preference is immaterial. You will die, and I will watch. Good-bye.” 

“No, wait-” he starts, leaning forward on the balls of his feet as though about to leap- for what purpose, he’s not really sure- but he’s cut off by the noose pulling taught, digging painfully into his windpipe. He can hear the sound of the gears shifting above him, the whirring of the rope being drawn up. It’s not moving terrifically fast, but it is steady, and powerful. Already his breath has been completely cut off, without even the opportunity to take a final breath to extend his time limit. 

He thrashes for a moment, instinctive, animal, before his higher brain functions kick back in and he forces himself to stop, to hold still and conserve energy, balanced on his tip-toes in a futile effort to relieve the pressure. 

_Okay, okay_ , he thinks, sweat beading at his temples and back, clammy in the cool air of the room. It’s hard not to just start flailing about again- the rope on his neck is painful, dragging him upwards, inexorable, and he can feel himself getting woozy, his lungs burning in his chest like they’re about to erupt out of his rib-cage. 

He has to think fast- do something. He’s only got about three minutes, max, until he loses consciousness, and if that happens it’s game over. He needs to get out of this noose. 

If he could get a grip on it, then he could probably yank the entire pulley mechanism out of the ceiling. Onto himself, yeah, but that’s got to be better than getting _strangled to death_. He can get himself out from under some rubble- no problem. 

He tries to reach his arms up, but his toes are beginning to skim the floor lightly and he can’t get the leverage to bend his arms up and back without thrusting the rest of his body forward. He swings a little in the attempt, and the wooziness hits again, more encompassing, not fading so much as receding, slightly, enough for him to force thoughts through his panic-soaked brain. 

He can’t do anything with his hands behind his back, okay. First order of business, get out of the cuffs. He yanks his hands apart, futilely, a couple more times, hoping that the right pressure or angle will cause them to snap. 

His lungs are screaming, the skin around his neck feeling as though it is about to blister and burst, a terrible pressure building in his temples. He’s running out of time- he can feel looming unconsciousness creeping in at the edges of his awareness, deep and dark and yawning, inevitable.

 _T_ _ry something else, Spider-Man. Use your head._

He twists one hand around until it can grasp the short chain connecting the cuffs, gripping the other cuff right where it meets the chain, holding it in place. He tucks his thumb as far into his palm as possible, narrowing the width of his hand as much as he can, and begins to pull- not away, in another attempt to snap the chain, but _through_. 

The metal of the cuffs bites into the thick skin at the base of his palm, pressure around the width of his hand almost as painful as that around his neck. Another second, a twinge, and then a wave of pain so fierce he worries it's going to knock him out, his entire arm suddenly on fire. 

_Radial nerve_ , he thinks, dazedly. Hopefully his healing factor can deal with that later- he’s never had nerve damage for it to contend with, he doesn’t think, but he’s also never had an injury it couldn’t eventually deal with, given enough time. 

He keeps going. 

There’s a great tearing sensation, bursts of warm, wet liquid suddenly flowing over his wrist and the cuff, making things sticky and slippery, all at once. The sharp scent of copper fills the air, and he becomes aware of a strained, high-pitched, strangled sound reaching his ears, grating and horrifying. 

That’s him, he realizes. 

He yanks against his restraint once again, throwing all the strength he can muster into the motion. His bones grind, skin rending, and he lets loose another cut-off scream-

-and his hand pops free. 

His body swings again, the momentum of his hand coming loose rocking him again. He’s several inches off the ground now, unable to touch it even as he points his toes down and stretches. 

He’s not going to be able to get the leverage to pull the mechanical system down, even with super strength. Not if he can’t brace himself on the floor. 

He suddenly registers that tears are coursing down his hot, swollen-feeling face. For the first time, something like despair wells up within him. 

This can’t be it. It can’t. He’s not ready. 

Ignoring the screaming pain in his right hand, he raises both his arms and grabs onto the rope above his head. He pulls, throwing all the arm and core strength he has left into pulling his body _up_. The rope remains taught above his hands, but, blessedly, it slackens below them, the pressure on his neck easing, ever so slightly. 

Slowly, torturously, he thrusts one hand over the other, pulling himself up the rope, towards the pulley mechanism in the ceiling. It feels like it takes a million years- surely the humorless robot person is watching- and he’s a little surprised that no-one comes in to stop him. 

Maybe that’s just how sure they are that he won’t be able to get himself out of this. 

He thrusts that thought away immediately, mentally recoiling like the kickback on a pistol. 

His hand hits metal. 

He looks up; he’s at the ceiling mechanism, and if there’s a place where he can tear out the rope, that should be enough for him to get out of here. He’s having an easier time of breathing, but he’s still dizzy and having difficulty focusing, thoughts moving sluggishly through his mind. 

Animal panic courses through him. _Get it off get it off get it offgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff-_

He punches forward blindly with his good hand. His injured one _screams_ under the sudden agony of having all his weight supported by its grip on the rope, and then-

-his fingers close around metal with a satisfying _crunch_. He yanks, and the rotating wheel on which the rope had been wound comes free, along with the attached components of the pulley mechanism. 

Everything keeping him in the air, basically. 

He drops, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring force, and just manages to fling his arms over his head in time to protect his skull from being bashed in by falling machinery. 

As it is, his arm- his bad arm- takes the brunt of the damage. With a sickening _snap_ and a pure, blinding wave of pain, he feels his forearm break. 

He screams again, the rope around his neck loose enough now that it comes out properly, and the sound of it ringing in his ears almost covers the noise of the door bursting open. 

There’s a cacophony of shouting, of bullets going off and hitting the ceiling and walls, of a sudden influx of bodies filling the cramped space. Peter can’t make sense of it, though somehow- miraculously- his reflexes are still working overtime for him. 

He’s twisting out of the way of the spray of bullets before he can even register telling his body to move, flipping over the heads of the incoming goons. His good hand comes up to rip the noose off his neck and he flings the rope aside as he lands, spinning immediately into a kick that sends the nearest goon flying into a wall. 

Keeping his injured arm tucked protectively against his chest, he spins again, kicking a gun out of another man’s hands, then sending him after his buddy to sprawl against the floor. 

Another two men rush into the room. Peter leaps over them, feet pushing off briefly against the ceiling as he flips, landing on his good side into a roll and springing up so he can run out the door. 

He reaches out to slam the heavy metal door behind him as he goes. Even if it doesn't trap them in, it'll slow them down for a second, and right now he'll take what he can get. 

There’s no one else in the hallway and he takes off, not really pausing to think about where he’s going but trusting his screaming senses to guide him. He’s more sensation and impulse than thinking human, at this point, senses strained past the point of exhaustion, mind completely stalled, unwilling to process his surroundings any more than absolutely necessary, in an effort to put off feeling all the pain he’s in. 

He skids around a corner, and comes to a sudden stop. 

There’s a man standing there, thin-lipped, graying hair, wearing a neat, tidy suit and pointing a gun directly at Peter. 

Peter stares, watching the man thumb the safety off of his pistol. 

“Spider-Man,” he says, in that familiar unsettling, even tone. 

Then, there’s a whine of a propulsor, and the man is lurching sideways, blasted off his feet. He rolls on the ground, dropping the gun as he goes, and comes to a stop ten feet away. He doesn’t move again.

Peter looks up, watching Mr. Stark's red-and-gold Iron Man suit barrel around the corner. 

He lands a few feet away, and Peter blinks at him. Mr. Stark steps forward, faceplate dissolving, hands coming up to hover awkwardly, a few inches away from Peter’s swaying body. 

“Kid?” he asks, voice urgent. “Are you alright?” 

Right. Kidnapping. Handcuffs. _Hanging_. Mostly naked and bleeding pretty much, uh, everywhere. This must be the cavalry. He should reassure Mr. Stark. He looks really worried. 

“I had that guy,” he says. 

Then his knees crumble beneath him. He’s out before he can register Mr. Stark’s startled cry, arms reaching out to stop his fall.

* * *

Peter comes to piecemeal, bits of sensory information filtering into his awareness disjointed, uneven. There’s the faint pressure of what feels like bandages wrapped around his hand and neck, the sharp sting of antiseptic in his nose, the gentle drip of liquid somewhere off to the side-

Ah. The med bay. Great. 

He groans, involuntary, and turns his head, cracking his eyes open and blearily registering that May is slumped in a chair at his bedside, fast asleep. Her hand is dangling over the edge of the chair she’s curled up in, and from the way his arm is stretched across the hospital bed towards her, he can guess that she was holding his hand before she fell asleep. 

There’s a rustling noise from the doorway and Peter lifts his head, slowly, feeling almost cartoonishly weak, the gesture taking more effort than is entirely reasonable. 

Mr. Stark is standing there, rumpled blazer and dark jeans, under-eye bags telling Peter all he needs to know about how he’s been sleeping. He notices that Peter’s awake almost immediately, stepping further into the room, stopping only once he’s level with the end of Peter’s bed. 

“Hey kid,” he says, quiet so as to not wake May. 

Peter makes a grunting noise that might be construed as a greeting. He takes a moment to muster the wherewithal to form actual words. It’s annoying, how out of it he feels. 

“How long?” he asks, voice sounding a bit like he’s run it through a blender. 

Mr. Stark gives a smile that has definite flavors of self-deprecation to it, and when he speaks, his tone is bitter. “You’ve been out for a little over a day, healing up. It only took us about 6 hours to find you, but, well- we weren’t fast enough, obviously.” 

Peter shakes his head, moving to push himself up on his elbows, a reflexive whine of disagreement eking out of his throat. Mr. Stark takes a step toward him, hands coming up, mouth opening to let out a wordless noise of protest, and the concern in his eyes stops Peter's efforts. He lets himself drop back to the mattress. 

“Not your fault,” he says, to the ceiling. “Don’t be dumb.” 

He winces almost immediately. He’s beginning to wonder if maybe he’s not drugged- which, yeah actually, probably makes sense, given all the _everything_ \- because he definitely did not mean to call _Tony Stark_ dumb. Whoops. 

Mr. Stark snorts, then sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed. Peter lifts his head again to watch him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he settles a broad hand on Peter’s ankle. 

Peter casts about for something to say. His head lolls back a bit, and his eyes land on May. He looks back at Mr. Stark. “She… sleep at all?” 

He shakes his head. “Just now. Sent Happy to stay with her while we were searching, and he brought her here as soon as I got you. She hasn’t budged since we brought you in.”

Peter can’t help but smile a bit. That’s nice. It’s… jarring to realize that he’s been unconscious, healing from the events of his little bout of kidnapping, for longer than he was actually captive for. Something about that is unsettling, lopsided. He feels a lot safer, suddenly, knowing she’s been with him ever since he got out of that… place. 

Which reminds him. 

“The man-” he rasps out. 

Mr. Stark squeezes his ankle, reassuring. “SHIELD’s got him, and his crew. Turns out his guys aren’t all that loyal, they all flipped on him the second we even mentioned the Raft. Sounds like he had an anti-superhero agenda. Also, he was crazy. I don’t think it can be overstated that he was very much a crazy person.”

Peter tries to dredge up a smile for him, but he’s pretty sure he misses the mark. “Nice to know... he just tried to kill me to… make a point.” 

Mr. Stark’s expression softens. “Yeah, I know- not super comforting.” His eyes gain a glint of steel. “But we got him, and the bastard’s not going anywhere. I can promise you that.”

The hardness in Tony’s gaze, in his voice, should be off-putting, probably, but right now Peter can’t dredge up the will. He’s starting to feel the pain of his injuries again, despite the drugs, and he’s exhausted, and if he lets himself think about it for too long he feels a little like he can’t breathe. The promise of retribution for anyone who dares come near him in Mr. Stark’s expression makes him feel… protected. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he says, slurring a little. It’s getting harder and harder to push words out past his lips. 

Mr. Stark smiles, then squeezes his ankle again. “Go back to sleep, kid. We’re here.” 

Peter summons the last of his energy to return the smile, this time with much more success. Then he lets his head fall back against the pillows, consciousness sliding gently away. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading; i hope y'all enjoyed. please feel free to drop me a note if you did. i'd love to hear from you!
> 
> hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/), if you're so inclined.
> 
> finally, once again you can subscribe to the series if you're interested in more whump from me! it will be mostly Spider-Man/Iron Dad and Pilgrimage (2017) prompt fills


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